Come to me
by Mathilda Dahl
Summary: A prequel to 'talk to me'. Jane finds out who Red John is. Kind of going for an intense 'fic noir' feel. I'm probably going to end up with a series of these.


'Mmm, what?'

Jane was jolted out of his light doze by his office phone ringing on the desk. He sat up, a little bemused. It was two in the morning, and the rest of the team had finally gone home after a day running themselves ragged trying to locate the Attorney General. He hadn't been seen since mid-morning. Normally the CBI wouldn't have been called in so quickly, but his cell phone had been found in a dumpster along with his watch, jacket and the lo-jack from his car. They had spent all afternoon and evening searching for him, and it looked good as an abduction/murder. The whole building was like a kicked over ant heap, everyone scurrying around madly.

A pity if that were the case, as the AG had done been very tolerant and helpful over the past couple of years. Even with all the outrageous stunts Jane had pulled he'd not had him fired. He'd been very understanding. Good sense of humor.

The phone kept ringing. Nobody had ever called him directly on the office phone. Very strange.

'Alright, alright ... '

The phone rang insistently at him. Bleary-eyed and wild-haired, he fumbled with the handset.

'Hello?'

Some kind of clicking noise, then a computer generated voice - was Stephen Hawking so desperate he was doing telemarketing?

'Please do not hang up, Mr Jane, this is not a sales call. I have all the answers you want, but not on an unsecure phone line. Take your jacket and car keys and go to the payphones just outside the parking lot and wait for a call. You do not want anyone else to know about this, so try to leave unnoticed.'

And it hung up. Some kind of recording. Instantly awake, the prospect of some kind of information about Red John having hit him like a bucket of ice water. Think ... it could be a lure. Can I get the number that called from the phone? He tried. No, number withheld. Of course he was going to the payphones, he couldn't ignore even the faintest chance that the caller might have information about Red John. He snatched up his jacket, hopped off the couch and sprinted for the stairs.

The lot was empty except for the security guard who waved him out. There was a row of three phones along the outside of the railings, and he tried to look inconspicuous as he leant against them. One of them rang almost instantly and he snatched up the receiver. Again, the same click, and another recorded message.

'I have Red John prisoner, and I have proof it is him. Shall I give him to you, or to the police?'

The recording stopped. He could hear traffic noises, it sounded like this was from another payphone.

'I want him'. He didn't even have to think about that. My God, was someone offering him Red John on a silver plate? His heart began to pound and his mouth went dry. No, this couldn't be real.

'Do you want to get away with it?' The recorded voice again.

Now that was an odd question. Something that seemed to indicate a regard for his feelings and a hint that this might be a genuine offer. He hands shook a little, and he was momentarily lost for words.

'Do you want to get away with it?' It repeated after a few seconds

'I', he hesitated. So many years. He'd made a point of not thinking about a possible life after killing Red John on the grounds it would be distracting ... and he hadn't been able to see past the bloody daydreams. He didn't care if he was caught. But it would be better to keep his options open in case he felt differently later.

'Yes. Tell me where he is.'

'Wedged behind the phone against the booth is a key to a motel room, with an address on the envelope. Get in your car and go there, try not to be seen and don't leave your car in the lot where it can be seen. Follow all the instructions you'll find in the room to the letter, and it will take you to where I've left him.'

'How do I know this isn't some kind of trap?'

The phone went dead again. He put the receiver back, then paused for a moment. There was no way he was ever going to turn down even the remotest chance of this being true. He took a breath and slid his fingers into the tiny gap between the phone and the metal hood. Paper, around something thin and hard. He tugged on it carefully, and produced an envelope with a the words 'Parkway motel,' along with a few directions and a map neatly drawn on it. There was a room key inside attached to a wooden board with the motel logo on it. Well. So far it was looking promising.

He leant against the railings for a few moments, trying to calm down. He couldn't drive like this, and he had to walk past Carl at the gate again to get to his car. Count backwards. Ten, heart slows a little. Nine, breathe in slower. Eight, shoulders down. Seven, loosen up jaw...

He ran through the whole list, until he was able to manage a sociable wave as he wandered back, and strolled over to his car. Keep calm. Just open the door and sit down, you've been driving for decades. A few miles shouldn't be a problem. He slowly pulled out of the lot, and onto Q street, then drove as normally as he could manage until he pulled onto a quiet road off the highway, parking just alongside the motel.

It was dead silent. Lower rent but clean, no security cameras, and the number on the room key was the one nearest the road, so he didn't have to walk past a barrage of potential witnesses. Very thoughtful. He stood outside the thin door for a few moments. There was a light on, but nothing but silence from the inside. He unlocked it, then opened the door with a good hard shove, just to make sure anyone standing behind it would get a broken nose. But the door just smacked into the wall and bounced back towards him. No-one came out to check on the noise, the rest of the rooms stayed dark. Was anybody else staying here?

Just your standard cheap but clean motel aimed at those of a certain income. Clean bathroom, worn but washed sheets and towels, nothing offensive, no-one home. Folded neatly on the bed were some dark grey sweats and black sneakers, and on the small dresser was a portable DVD player, plugged into the socket instead of the lamp. Taped above it was a sheet of A4 with the words 'Play me' printed on it.

'Okay, Alice,' he said to himself, and he sat down and pressed the play button.

On the small screen was an expensive-looking room with a real fire. Leather armchairs, polished wood, marble, all seen from a high vantage point, a hidden camera. The sound quality wasn't bad. Men in suits were drinking from expensive crystal and laughing, but the sound was only sharp in one corner of the room. Some kind of club. There stood the Attorney General and Keith Walcott, along with some of Sacramento's richest investment bankers and investors in the AG's campaign fund.

'Whoever sent this knows, and they want fifty million to keep quiet.' Keith Walcott's body language was that of a man outraged. One of us must have talked ... or been careless.' He turned and glared at the Attorney General, all six foot three of him heaving with indignation.

'They haven't found out through me.' He shrugged, hands making an open gesture ... see, not me. 'I've kept my head down since the Hardy incident. And that was eight months ago. If I'd been found out from that, this blackmailer would have crawled out of the woodwork a long time ago.'

His hunt was over.

He was unable to breathe for a while, then his face started to heat up as the DVD played on. Someone wanted a lot of money to keep quiet about the identity of Red John, and the rest of the group were split between a quiet payout, or luring the blackmailer into the open for a more lethal solution. Walcott wanted them dead, as did the Attorney General.

Jane's stomach began to tighten up. He'd been in the room with him face to face a dozen times. How could he have missed it?

Of course, he was perfectly placed. That's how he had accessed the DOJ database to contact him as Red John, and how he had found Renfrew in Tijuana so quickly - Minelli had called him personally to tell him they'd found him. He'd insisted on being kept up to date with every development in the Red John case, now matter how minute.

How many other people had managed to smile and lie and slide straight past his radar? That bastard and his friends must have been laughing at him for the past two years. The whole time he'd worked at the CBI Red John was in an office two floors above; sending him off on errands, rewarding him with a pat on the head and benevolently 'overlooking' his bad behaviour. Was it for the pleasure of watching him chase his own tail? Or a case of keep your enemies close?

His world had just folded in on itself, and Jane lay down on the bed, choking with humiliation and rage. There was more footage, but he couldn't watch it. Cho in a car with the attorney general at night, calling him sir - he'd been in the military with him. Oh.

It took a while for the rage to subside, then he finished watching the disc.

Cho's involvement was a surprise. But right now bright and bloody vengeance was waiting for him and he had work to do. There was some text at the end of the DVD telling him to open the cabinet drawer. He found another printed sheet, a jagged bone fishing knife and a set of car keys.

Jane followed the instructions - he hung his suit up in the wardrobe, then changed into the sweats, pulling the hood over his hair, and tucking the knife into the pouch at the front. For once in his life he obeyed without question.

Who could have done this? They had certainly put a lot of effort into arranging it for him. He would have thought earlier in the evening that no-one he knew was capable of this. But then, he'd sat and had tea with the man who'd butchered his little girl and her mother on several occasions and not realised. So, what did he know?

Patrick Jane the magnificent ... and complete idiot.

Time to get into the car.

About ten minutes later, he parked the chevy by a broken street light on a row of condemned houses. The sort of place junkies and dealers like to hang out. The kind of place people get murdered. The house he was looking at was falling apart, but had a new door and secure windows, and a faint light showing from an upstairs window.

He was starting to feel a little giddy, a kind of drunken euphoria gliding him along the path and up to the door. He took the door key that had been left in the glove compartment, and opened it. There was a single battery lantern lighting the hall, marking the bottom of the stairs for him. Any other time he would have checked the house, but moments later he was inexplicably standing on the stairs, the wood creaking beneath his feet. There was a stronger light coming from above him, the bathroom, its door ajar.

He stood for a moment on the last step - that room was empty, he could see clothes and a towel in there. He hadn't noticed before, but there was a strong, familiar scent of something flammable - ethyl ether. This place was ready to burn. Very thorough.

Another light source, to his left. He turned his head slowly towards it, like a flower to the sun. The sound of laboured breathing, coming from one of the bedrooms. The door was open, and there was another light on the room, but he couldn't see in from this angle. Just a few more steps. A hot tear slid down his cheek, and he smiled. Interesting, not scared, but all excited, like he was going on a date. Heart racing and blood rushing to his cheeks.

He pulled out the knife. A step closer. The floorboards creaked brutally loudly in the silence.

And he was there. The smile on his face would have sent Satan running.

'Hello'. 


End file.
